


Paper Men

by thesacredgrove



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, Dead Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester is Bad at Feelings, Denial of Feelings, Destiel - Freeform, Drinking to Cope, Eventual Smut, Feelings Realization, Human Castiel, Hurt Castiel, M/M, Newly Human Castiel, Oral Sex, Temporarily Human Castiel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-07-18 20:59:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16126622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesacredgrove/pseuds/thesacredgrove
Summary: Since Sammy died, Dean Winchester's felt as crumpled as balled-up paper. Castiel is human now, and not faring much better. Can these two smooth each other out, along with their jumbled feelings?





	1. 28

Castiel wasn't so much sitting on the edge of the bed as he was thrown there, a human-shaped rumpled mess. He was folded over himself, holding a damp cloth to his bloodied face.

Dean was rumpled, too; paper that had been balled-up and smoothed out one too many times. The hunter ached in places he'd forgotten he had until tonight. After what he and Cas had just been through, he was more tired and banged-up than he'd been in a while.

There was no time for weariness now, though. Dean dragged the shabby motel chair up beside the bed; sitting face-to-face with Castiel would be the best way to assess the angel's damage.

“ _He's not an angel anymore,”_ Dean reminded himself, sometimes finding it hard to remember that Cas was human now. He hadn't stopped carrying himself like the heavenly host was backing every one of his plays, though.

Tonight proved they weren't – that was for sure.

This hunt had been bad: the worst since they'd lost Sam. The fight took a rough turn and Castiel had gotten himself hurt. Charging in to save the day like he was still invincible, Cas put himself in danger - too much danger, Dean thought. It could have been worse, the hunter knew, but that didn't stop him from fuming.

There wasn't time to be mad now, though.  
There was work to do.

“Nothing's broken,” Dean confirmed, cradling Castiel's face in his hands to scrutinize the worst of his injuries. He adjusted the torn paper lampshade to get a better look, tipping Cas' stubbled chin left and right beneath it.

To an outsider, his motions may have appeared staccato.

They were anything but.

The old lamp released a shower of dust, the sour light it cast only accentuating the tenderness in the man's touch.

“You need some stitches on this side,” he continued, releasing Castiel with a nudge, “Probably gonna hurt like Hell.”

Both men paused for an instant, exchanging heavy glances before each moved. Cas pressed the warm cloth back to his broken skin while Dean fetched the first aid kit from his pack. He rummaged a little longer than he had to and also produced a flask. A quick swig was all the hunter took before offering it to Castiel, who brought it to his lips with a wince of pain.

If Cas had learned one thing since becoming human, it was to never turn down a drink from Dean Winchester. There was a reason it was being offered.

He took a long pull of the amber liquid as Dean washed up and readied supplies in the bathroom. The whiskey scorched his throat but he took another swallow, and another. The taste was awful, but he liked how it made him feel: warm inside - furry. Less worried.

Less afraid.

He realized just being with Dean made him feel most of those things already.

Cas recapped the flask and dropped it with a _clink_ to the pockmarked surface of the nightstand.

By the time Dean returned, the former angel had counted all the old cigarette burns there, and all the ones scattered on the ancient dresser, too.

28.

 


	2. Homecoming

They weren't talking about what had happened tonight.  
They didn't need to.  
There wasn't anything to say they didn't already know and hadn't already thought.

“This is gonna hurt,” Dean reiterated, pressing his fingertips softly to either side of the angry gash across Castiel's right cheekbone.

Silent - only nodding – Cas shifted on the bed. The hunter had already applied some home-brew antiseptic and was coming toward him slowly with a needle and fine thread.

Dean tried to concentrate, but his mind moved in slow motion. The whiskey and memories of the last time he'd done this clouded his vision.

It had been for Sammy.  
It had been _that night_.

Squeezing his eyes shut against the mud in his brain, Dean took a breath. Moments flashed behind his eyelids and his hands began to tremble. He stopped, hovering just inches from Castiel's face.

Dean was a glass of water headed for overflow.  
Tonight had just been too much.  
  
Cas studied the man's face. He squinted involuntarily, cocking his head just a touch, trying to puzzle out what was going on. Dean felt eyes on him and opened his own, both men meeting each others' gaze. They each noticed instantly just how badly the hunter's hands were shaking.

“The pain doesn't bother me, Dean,” Cas offered, doing his best to comfort and reassure.

It was true. Castiel still found the concept of physical pain novel, another fresh human experience to endure or enjoy.

Dean threw down his quivering hands and stood up too fast, pitching the chair he'd been sitting in sideways.

“ _Goddammit Ca_ s, it bothers _me!”_ Dean raised his voice, moving backwards, trying to escape the cloud of emotions that surrounded him, “You need to be more careful out there! You're all I -”

Lightning-fast, Castiel looked up at Dean who turned away as soon as their eyes met. The hunter was trying to choke it all back. He snatched the flask off the nightstand and drained it in one gulp to help.

“You're not Superman anymore, Cas,” Dean said after a moment, finishing a completely different sentence than the one he'd started.

His tone softened as the whiskey began to work its way through him, “You're _damned_ lucky that was all you got tonight,” he finished, gesturing with the flask at the former angel's bloody face.

Cas shifted on the bed again, knowing what Dean was saying – _really_ saying - and had been saying for, what … years, maybe?  
  
He wondered - when had he begun to realize Dean had feelings for him?

 _Serious_ feelings?

After he'd lost his grace? When he fell? Certainly after they lost Sam.

That's when everything _really_ changed.

Whether it was his own growing ability to comprehend it, or Dean's equally growing _in_ ability to hide it, Cas wasn't sure. But that didn't alter the facts: Dean cared for Castiel. Really _cared_ for him. He usually showed it in silent ways, but things were different tonight.

Tonight, the hunter was a pane of glass in this room: transparent and fragile. Cas had never seen him like this. The fight must have been even worse than he'd thought.

Castiel's heart began to thump - faster and harder than it should, he knew. He clasped his hands in his lap like he'd seen people do sometimes, in places like church, and took a deep breath.

“You don't need to worry about me, Dean,” he tried to sound consoling but instead, the words escaped his throat as a dry and raspy croak. He craned his neck to look up at the man, cocking his head and squinting again.

The hunter looked down at the angel and winced. Pain and conflict were plain on his face. He closed his eyes but was all fire again in an instant. 

Dean suddenly wished he hadn't drained that flask so quickly. It hit the wall after he threw it, leaving a triangular dent in the threadbare wallpaper and the discolored drywall beneath.

“Dammit Cas - _the Hell I don't!_ ” he snapped, his voice hopefully louder than the jumble of feelings the angel was knocking loose inside of him. He took a breath to calm himself, running one hand over his brow and realizing he still had a handful of rudimentary medical equipment clutched in the other.

Without a word, the hunter righted his seat and dropped into it again, the frayed armchair groaning and creaking as it received the burden of his weight. He took hold of Castiel's face one more time, lightly moving it side to side to plan his final strategy before going to work in earnest.

Dean was no surgeon, but he had done this enough times to be as precise as one under these circumstances. He knew he had to do a good job – Cas was counting on him.

Taking a second to calm the trembling he was pretending to ignore, he dabbed at the wound one more time with some of his homemade disinfectant. Pressing the raw red edges of the angel's flesh together, a perfect pink line formed between his thumb and forefinger. The ruby-colored mark, highlighter thin and neon, was the only thing visible beneath his left hand as he began to stitch with the right.

Aside from the tiniest of flinches and a slow exhale, Castiel was still and silent, not willing or able to interrupt the hunter. He understood that this was a ritual for Dean - one he needed to complete. Quiet, he focused on Dean's hands as the man worked on him, deep in thought and more.

Gentle when pliant tissue needed to be moved but firm when the task needed force, Dean's fingers pawed Castiel's broken flesh as a kitten might. Tired but steady, they passed over Cas' features in a comforting rhythm and the angel found himself mesmerized by their movement. Coming near, prick of the needle, sliding through, passing out and away, knot, trim, moving close again to start over … Cas was enthralled by the somatic components of Dean's own brand of healing spell. Even the pain of it was an odd comfort, the sensation still so new to him that he reveled in it as fully as any other.

Cas wasn't alone - Dean felt it too: the pattern of peace he wove between them with his needle and thread. It really was a sort of magic. Each tight knot and neat stitch calmed him. He was bringing order to chaos. He was helping and healing.

There was comfort in this quiet work.

They both fell into the rhythm of it as though hypnotized. The soundless peace of the moment carried them until Dean was nearly done. The man finally broke their trance, almost in a whisper.

“I can't -” Dean's breath was sweet with whiskey and longing, words like molasses falling from his mouth. His gaze passed over Cas' face, stopped at the tight rows of thread, moved down to the angel's lips where he lingered - too long. He realized Castiel had noticed, and their eyes met with a start. Even with just a glance, Cas saw how misty-eyed Dean had become.

“Sammy's gone now, Cas,” Dean said, the fact sticking in his throat, “I can't lose -”

The hunter stopped, clenched his jaw against the words fighting to get out. He swallowed hard and focused instead on his final stitches, even and tight, and the last few knots to secure them in place.

Finishing, he thought to himself how delicate the thin sewed line looked against the unshaven face it patched together. If the wound left a scar, it would be handsome and interesting, just like the man wearing it.

He had so much to say.

But once again not wanting to finish the sentence he'd started, he pretended to be saying something else entirely.

“I can't be the reason you get killed,” Dean finally said, though it wasn't exactly what he'd meant.

He snipped one last thread very close to Cas' cheek with sharp scissors and grabbed his yellow-tinged cotton ball from the dresser. Touching it to the perfect lines he'd created, he also passed it lightly over the many smaller scrapes and scratches scattered across the landscape of Castiel's face.

“I can't be the reason,” he continued, watery eyes meeting Cas' one more time, “Not again. Not _you_.”

Dean's voice cracked on the last word. He dropped his hands and his gaze, totally defeated. Cas watched mute as the man struggled with his feelings, no alcohol left to wash them away. The hunter tossed the soaked cotton back onto the dresser and moved to wipe a falling tear before its existence became too obvious.

Without thinking too much about how or why, Cas reached for Dean. Feather-light, he took the man by the wrist to stop him from destroying the proof of emotion making its way down his face. The angel used his other hand to wipe it away himself. He then brought the damp fingers to his mouth, tasting the hunter's tears as an afterthought.

Dean's mouth fell open and he took a deep breath. His eyes blew wide; speechless. Before he could react further, Castiel moved in and pressed their lips together.

This first kiss wasn't awkward. Short, almost chaste, it was a sweet homecoming for both of them - long overdue.


	3. The Right Thing

The angel knew he was in over his head as soon as he leaned forward. He desperately hoped he was doing the right thing - he thought he was, but Cas was smart enough now to know that he always _thought_ he was doing the right thing.

He wasn't always right. But there was no going back from this. No way to rewind time. He just had to finally trust the aching of his heart, the thumping of it that had grown too loud to ignore.

Castiel touched his lips to the hunter's once, twice. Three times mouth-to-mouth, the angel was as careful as the man had just been while working on his wound: firm, delicate. Brushing his hands through Dean's hair, he cradled the man's face and sucked his bottom lip lightly when he felt it was time to withdraw.

Dean was surprised by one thing after the next: the touch of Cas’ hand, the tears he’d taken, his kiss, the velvet-feel of his mouth … by the sheer flawlessness of it all. He was too taken aback at first to do anything but taste whiskey and the salt of his tears on the angel's lips. The weight of the moment began to sink in, though, and as it did, more liquid emotion sprang from his eyes to replace what Castiel had claimed. The angel swiped at each tear as it came with the pad of his thumb. Soon enough, Cas found even both thumbs inadequate, so he swapped hands for lips. He sought out each drop and kissed them away, one after the next.

“I'm sorry, Dean,” Cas whispered between kisses, pressing his forehead to the hunter's.

Dean didn't know if this apology was for earlier tonight, right now, or something else. He had nothing to apologize for so it didn't matter. Shaking his head, Dean shushed Cas gently with a finger to the lips and caught himself making small noises as he did so; surprisingly delicate animals sounds came from the back of the hunter's throat as their unshaven cheeks grazed each other.

The pair stayed like this for a quiet for a moment, Cas breaking away first. A thin smear of Betadine had transferred onto Dean's face from the angel's wound, a ghost of the hunter's hard work. Castiel moved to wipe that as well, then moved in to put his mouth to the man's again.

The part of Dean that couldn't believe this was happening had already evaporated. His initial shock gave way to relief and belief, even comfort. When Castiel leaned in a second time, the hunter was ready. He took Cas' head in both hands, challenging the plushness of the angel's lips to part for his tongue; they did – soft and eager. Castiel, finding openings to nip and lick and bite at Dean's mouth, was undone, melting as more low noises came from the man's throat. The hunter was a breathless creature, growling and moaning.

“Why haven't we done this before?”  
  
Swept up in the moment, Dean regretted the rhetorical question as soon as it left his mouth. He tried to hide it between more kisses, tilting the angel's chin back and scattered them down his neck.

It didn't work.

“Until recently, I had little experience with the human condition and was in no position to pursue a relationship of any kind,” Castiel answered, took a quick breath in and continued, “Also, you're terrified of real intimacy, repress the majority of your emotions, and don't believe you deserve to be loved.”

Dean winced internally, sighing against Cas' skin. The angel had changed a lot since becoming human, but his taking things too literally hadn't changed at all.

“I don't deserve _you_ ,” he said, mouth searching for the hollow of the angel's collarbone. His lips barely left the surface of Cas' flesh as he murmured against it.

“You deserve much more, Dean,” Cas replied, his throat humming under Dean's mouth.

Dean shook his head against the angel's neck, trying to keep more tears from coming. His lips still searched for the depression at Cas' collar but couldn't find what his tongue longed for. The angel's shirt was buttoned too high. Castiel seemed to notice and popped his shirt's collar with one hand.

All the weariness left from the day was stripped from Dean then. That one button had lit him ablaze. The hunter launched himself forward off his decrepit seat, spreading his thighs to straddle the angel on the bed. He did so with such force that the shabby armchair fell over behind him, springs and fabric tumbling out from beneath as it fell.

The man didn't notice. His attention, both hands, and his mouth were all on Cas. He unfastened Castiel's shirt halfway, dragging his mouth over the angel's, over every piece of him as it was uncovered, and back again in a circuit.

Cas shuddered, took a deep breath between kisses.

“Dean,” he managed to whisper in a moment the hunter's mouth wasn't on his.

The man was too busy to reply, arms wrapped around the angel, tongue darting into and out of the crevice at Cas' collarbone again.

“Dean,” Castiel said again, more firmly this time.

The hunter stopped, breathless, looked up at Cas. The angel had cycled through many emotions tonight, and thin embarrassment was now one of them. Stacked against Dean's, his experience in this area gave him little in the way of confidence.

“This is … new. For me,” the angel said.

Dean slowed himself, took a breath. Their eyes met.

Castiel suddenly looked so tired, Dean thought.

“Me too, Cas,” Dean whispered, “Me too.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Going to try for a new chapter every Friday!  
> (And yes, I know I have like 300 other stories half finished!)  
> (I suck.)


End file.
